Flatmates
by badgermushroom
Summary: John learns more about Sherlock. Pre Series 2. Shameless S/L fluff. Slight OOCness.


A/N: So, I found this on my computer. I wrote it ages ago, just thought I'd leave it here. Technically it's somewhat chronological, but some of these are just random drabbles. Anyway, hope you enjoy!

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><p><strong>1.<strong> In Which Sherlock Can Sew

It was well into the morning by the time that John and Sherlock stumbled through the door to their flat after a particularly grueling case. Well, John stumbled, anyway. Sherlock just walked as he texted…somebody. John was starting to suspect that Sherlock was at least half-robot if he could still function so well after three days without sleep. John collapsed onto the couch, seriously debating the idea of sleeping there. Sherlock sat down in the armchair, grabbed the nearest laptop (John's) and started typing. John stared at his flat mate in utter disbelief for a moment, before sitting up and peeling off his cable-knit sweater. He let out a small whimper as he took in the full amount of damage done to the garment. There were several small tears from when a suspect body-slammed him to the ground along with a larger slash from when the actual perpetrator came at him with a knife. It was definitely ruined. And it had been his favorite one, too. Sherlock, of course, was untouched. Silently cursing the consulting detective and his superhuman ability to avoid injury, John stood to go to bed, figuring he could toss the sweater on his way. Before he could make it out of the room, he was stopped by Sherlock.

"Where are you going?" the detective asked, not taking his eyes off the laptop in front of him.

"Bed. I'm sure you've heard of it. That piece of furniture people use for sleep?" John retorted.

"Give it here." Sherlock said.

"What?" John replied, too tired to try to even guess at what Sherlock wanted.

"The sweater. Give it here," Sherlock clarified, still staring at the laptop.

"Sherlock, it's ruined. What could you possibly want with it?"

"Just give it here, would you?" the detective practically snapped.

"Fine," John barely refrained from growling before tossing the sweater to Sherlock. The detective somehow managed to catch it while still keeping his eyes fixed on the computer in front of him. John just shook his head slightly before all but running from the room. Sherlock was not going to get in between John and sleeping again.

The next morning, John had the luxury of letting himself wake up naturally. He didn't have to be at the clinic that day, and Sherlock, mercifully, seemed to be out, as the flat was quiet, and he hadn't been in John's room to wake him. John sat up, surprised when he hear a soft flump of something falling to the floor. He leaned over the side of his bed, ignoring his aching muscles, and stared in disbelief. There, lying on the floor, was his cable-knit sweater. He reached down and picked it up and then stared at it some more. His fingers ghosted over where the tears used to be, and he could feel the almost-imperceptible lines where someone had repaired the fabric. John lay back down as his mind raced. Had Sherlock actually gone through the trouble of sewing John's sweater for him? Could Sherlock even sew? Determined to get an answer, John got up, only to notice a small note on the floor from where the sweater had fallen. It simply read: _John, You're welcome. –SH._ John almost laughed out loud at such a very Sherlock way to announce the fact that he had actually done something nice for John. Smiling, John slipped the sweater on and went downstairs, still marveling at the fact that Sherlock could do something as mundane as sewing.

**2**. In Which Sherlock Is Less Than Graceful

From his first meeting with Sherlock Holmes, John had come away with the impression that the detective was a graceful, almost elegant, person when moving. And for the most part he had been correct in this assumption. However, he quickly learned that there were times when Sherlock seemed to have bouts of extreme, uncontrollable clumsiness. Really, John was considering finding out if it was an actual disorder.

The first time it had happened was a week after John had formally moved in with Sherlock. John was in the living room watching crap telly while Sherlock sat at the kitchen table working on an experiment. It was relatively quiet until John heard a slipping noise followed by a hard _thump_, in turn followed by a muffled curse_._ Getting up to investigate, John had to resist the urge to fall over laughing once he spotted Sherlock. The detective was on the floor, one arm clutching the chair he had just been occupying, the other arm pressed taut against his leg, obviously in pain, making it quite clear what had just happened. Sherlock Holmes had just fallen out of a chair for no reason. At that thought John did burst into laughter, which earned him a glare from his flatmate as Sherlock got up in search of ice.

The second time it happened they had been returning from a meeting with Lestrade, having just wrapped up another case. Having arrived back at the flat, John was following Sherlock up the stairs. It happened so suddenly John wasn't even fully aware what exactly had transpired until it was over. One second Sherlock was on the stairs in front of him, foot catching on one of the steps and the next Sherlock was at the top of the stairs taking a few stumbling steps until his knees connected to the ground with a painful sounding crack. Rushing the rest of the way up the staircase, John didn't even get the words out of his mouth to ask if Sherlock was okay before the detective was standing, brushing off his knees, and stoutly ignoring the fact he had just tripped up a staircase.

The fourth time it happened was the first time John started to suspect Sherlock might just be more graceless than he let on. They were at a crime scene, John and Lestrade hanging back against one wall as Sherlock moved about the room, taking in everything. There were only two doors in the room, the one they had come in through, hanging open, and one that was still shut. Sherlock moved to the closed door, asking Lestrade what was inside. Before the DI could answer, Sherlock tugged the door open, smacking his face with the edge causing him to stumble backwards. Once more resisting the urge to chuckle John moved forward to make sure Sherlock was alright as Lestrade called for an ice pack, Anderson shouting back that he was a forensic technician, not a housekeeper.

By the sixth time it happened John was beginning to think that perhaps the universe just had it out for Sherlock. He was in the kitchen, for once actually making tea, when one of his belt loops got caught on one of the cabinet door handles. Five minutes of struggling later and the detective was still stuck, forcing John to come in and cut the belt loop off his pants, as it had become inexplicably tied around the handle, where it still remained, neither man having found a way to remove it.

The tenth time it happened was the time John started considering giving this affliction of Sherlock's a name. He had just received a call from Lestrade about the triple homicide of three people who appeared to be complete strangers to each other. In his excitement the consulting detective barely took the time to grab his scarf and coat. Rushing to the door to the flat, closed for once, Sherlock hastily grabbed the doorknob, but apparently didn't twist it far enough as the next second he was, in all effects, body-slamming the closed door. Staggering back, he looked at John in confusion. The doctor just sighed and began checking for signs of a concussion for the third time in two weeks.

**3.** In Which Sherlock Is A Cat Person

John's day had started out as normally as a day living with Sherlock could. He had woken up and gone to the clinic, where he had received minimal texts from Sherlock about whatever new case he was trying to get hired on, and then he had come home, stopping to pick up Chinese on the way.

He should have known it was too good to last.

"Sherlock?" John asked, having just stepped through the door, only to be greeted by this.

"Hmm?" Sherlock replied absentmindedly, not looking up.

"What is that?" John asked, still standing inside the door.

"It's a kitten," his roommate explained calmly, as though it were perfectly natural for there to be a kitten in their flat. And for Sherlock to be cuddling it as he typed on his computer.

"I can see that," John sighed, annoyed, as ever, by how literal Sherlock could be at times. "I meant, why is it in our flat?"

"Lestrade gave it to me. Found it on a case. He said I could use a pet," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. John gaped a bit at that. Lestrade had given a living animal to Sherlock? And had, apparently, expected it to stay alive?

"Please tell me you aren't going to experiment on it," John begged, finally moving into the flat to put the take-out bags on the small area of the kitchen table not covered with experiments.

Sherlock looked a bit put out as he replied, "Lestrade made me promise I wouldn't. Besides," he continued, perking up slightly as he pet the kitten, "it's rather cute."

John was glad he had put the food down at that point, as he was dangerously close to passing out from shock. He was half-expecting to wake up from a dream, the other half of him expecting someone to jump out and yell 'Gotcha!'. Or maybe he had stepped into some parallel universe where Sherlock used words like 'cute'. Oh, God, did that mean that he was supposed to be a heartless sociopath? He didn't think he could do that, morally.

"Are you quite alright, John?" John was startled out of his thoughts by Sherlock, who had moved so that he was standing in front of John, the kitten somehow having migrated to the top of Sherlock's head.

"Umm..." was the only reply John could manage as he stared at his obviously insane flatmate. Yes, he decided. That was it. Sherlock had gone temporarily insane, and by tomorrow morning he'd be back to his regular non-kitten-loving self.

"John?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm fine," John responded, his resolve returned.

"Excellent," Sherlock said. "Now help me come up with a name."

"A name?" John repeated dumbly.

"Yes, John, a name," Sherlock said, somewhat exasperatedly. "He needs a name." It was then that John realized his flatmate was talking about the kitten.

"Oh," John mumbled. "Umm..." He looked properly at the kitten for the first time. It really was rather adorable, with folded ears and short legs, completely with fluffy white fur and wide yellow eyes. "How about Shroedinger?" John suggested.

Sherlock glared at him, looking slightly affronted. "You are not naming my cat Shroedinger."

"Fine," John said, stifling a chuckle at Sherlock's reaction. "How about… Mo?"

"Mo," Sherlock repeated thoughtfully. He lifted the kitten off his head and stared at it for a second as it mewled. "That is an acceptable name," he announced after a second, before promptly handing the kitten to John. The doctor let out a startled noise at promptly having his arms filled with the wriggling mass of fur. He stared in disbelief at his flatmate as he grabbed his coat and scarf.

"I'll be right back," Sherlock assured him. "I just need to go buy some supplies." And with that, Sherlock was gone, leaving John standing in the kitchen with the newly-christened Mo, as he tried desperately not to burst into laughter. Who would have suspected that the world's only consulting detective had a soft spot for kittens?

**4.** In Which Sherlock Is Not Musically Talented

Despite the fact that most of what Sherlock played on the violin was dissonant screeching, John knew for a fact that he could play the instrument quite beautifully when he chose to (which was not very often, much to John's chagrin). Therefore it came as a surprise to the doctor that in regard to every other musical instrument out there, Sherlock was dismally bad at music.

This discovery came following a case in which Sherlock had helped an orchestra recover a particularly valuable violin that had been stolen. As payment, they had offered the consulting detective a rather nice clarinet, which he had accepted, two things John considered in hindsight to be ridiculously bad decisions, in part because he and Sherlock needed money to continue renting their flat and paying for food, but mostly because Sherlock had become stubbornly determined to master the instrument.

In the beginning it hadn't been so bad. Used to Sherlock's atonal violin playing John had been able to shrug off the sounds, especially considering Sherlock was new at this. However, two weeks into things, it had become increasingly apparent to John that Sherlock was not improving and should just give up. To the misfortune of John and Mo, the detective himself had yet to realize this.

Which led to John sitting in his bedroom as he tried desperately to come up with a polite way to tell his flatmate that his clarinet playing made him want to tear his own ears off and that if he didn't get rid of the clarinet in the next two hours then John was going to defenestrate him and the infernal instrument with great rapidity. Next to him, Mo mewled pitifully as they listened to Sherlock butcher what might have been 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star', but could just as easily have been an attempt at 'Rhapsody in Blue' for all that John could recognize of it. Both man and kitten winced as a particularly painful note screeched from the living room. Finally fed up, John jumped from his bed, determined to give Sherlock a piece of his mind, politeness be damned.

"Sherlock!" he shouted from the doorway to the living room, the closest he dared get to Sherlock as long as he was playing that instrument.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock asked, sounding a bit miffed at having been interrupted.

"Sherlock," John repeated, a bit hesitant about where to begin, his resolve weakened once more now that he was actually facing the detective. "Were you planning on ever getting rid of that?" He gestured towards the clarinet Sherlock was clutching.

"No," Sherlock answered shortly. "Why?"

"Well, there's really no good way to say this, but," John paused for a second gathering his courage. "You're rubbish."

"I beg your pardon?" Sherlock asked, looking rather surprised.

"You heard me," John all but mumbled, looking at his feet rather than his flatmate.

"You think I'm rubbish?" Sherlock sounded quite affronted.

"Um, yes?" John hadn't intended it as a question, but he found it difficult to be so blunt to Sherlock, who was positively pouting at this point in the conversation.

"I see," Sherlock said, lapsing into silence. It stayed quiet for a while, John standing awkwardly in the doorway, Sherlock just sitting and looking pensive. Eventually he looked up and seemed surprised John was still standing there. "You can go," Sherlock said brusquely, putting the clarinet down and picking up a computer (his own, for once).

Feeling rather bemused about what had just happened, John obeyed Sherlock and returned to his room. The next day the clarinet was gone leaving John to hope this would end Sherlock's experimentation with musical instruments that weren't the violin. He would hate to think what would happen if Sherlock ever got his hands on a saxophone.

**5.** In Which Sherlock Is Far More Astute Than He Is Given Credit For

The fact that Sherlock Holmes was a genius was not something that John would ever argue against. The man was brilliant when it came to mathematics, science, deduction, forensics, as well as many other topics (astronomy and politics excluded). He could solve an average murder case in under ten minutes. He could tell you what everyone in the room had eaten for breakfast based on their shirts. He could tell what hotel a tourist had stayed at by looking at their shoes.

He had no social skills whatsoever.

Well, that's how it appeared to the casual outside observer. However, John had the benefit of living and working with Sherlock, and if there was one thing he was beginning to suspect with absolute certainty it was that Sherlock was not nearly as socially clueless as he seemed to let people think.

With one remark he could reduce women to tears, without seeming to realize he had said anything wrong. Yet at the same time he could use just the right of emotion to get just the piece of information he needed to help solve a case. Occasionally he would use just the right amount of charm to get people to let him in places he really had no right being, such as personal offices, or suspects' homes, or Lestrade's office and home.

Although, he did still, on occasion, end up remarking to someone that they really could stand to lose a few pounds then proceed to look at John in confusion as the person stormed off, angry.

**6.** In Which Sherlock's Favorite Hobby is Breaking and Entering (Into Lestrade's Flat)

By the end of the first month of his cohabitation with Sherlock, John had become well aware of his flatmate's penchant for picking locks and climbing through open windows and even, in one particularly memorable situation, wriggling through a dog flap to get into the homes of suspects and victims and random strangers alike. So it came as no surprise to the doctor one day when he was whisked off by the detective to an unfamiliar flat where Sherlock began picking the lock. With little more than a sigh, John took up the all too familiar position of watching for the owners. Within minutes he and Sherlock were inside, Sherlock promptly beginning a search for… something (John had given up guessing the things Sherlock was after long ago), leaving John to simply look around aimlessly.

This time it was a fairly nice flat, though rather sparse. Moving further into the flat, John noticed the furniture was rather generic and new-looking, or perhaps just rarely-used, and there were no decorations or pictures anywhere on the walls. The only personal touch he could see was a cluttered bookshelf shoved against one wall and he spotted picture frames among the books and papers. As John got closer to investigate, he stopped short when he realized he recognized everyone in the photographs. The first one was of Sherlock playing his violin. The second was of Lestrade, Anderson, and Donovan in what looked like a pub, all three laughing and smiling. There were two more pictures showing Lestrade with a young girl John assumed to be his daughter.

"Sherlock?" John called out hesitantly, not taking his eyes off the photographs. "Are we breaking into Lestrade's flat?"

Sherlock didn't answer, and before John could try again, the door swung open and he could hear Lestrade shouting.

"For God's sake Sherlock, we've talked about this!" John turned as he heard the voice come nearer, noting that Lestrade didn't sound angry, just kind of amused and exasperated. "I made you a bloody key-" Lestrade cut himself off when he spotted John awkwardly standing alone in his living room. "Oh. Hello, John."

"Um, hi?" John managed, as he shuffled his feet.

"Sorry about that, I was just expecting Sherlock," Lestrade said, flopping onto the couch. "He is here I presume?"

"Er, yes," John stammered. "Somewhere."

"Lestrade." John turned again at the sound of Sherlock's voice.

"Sherlock," Lestrade replied, also turning to face the detective. "I gave you that key for a reason, you know."

"Boring," Sherlock muttered, earning an eye-roll from Lestrade.

"What'd you come for anyway?" Lestrade asked.

"Left this last time I was here," Sherlock answered as he held up a scarf.

"Last time you broke in you mean," Lestrade retorted, though there was no accusation in his voice.

"Technicalities," Sherlock replied with a dismissive wave of his hand, gaining him another eye-roll from both Lestrade and John. Sherlock ignored this and turned to John. "Well, John, we really must be going."

"Right," John said, following Sherlock to the door. He turned to Lestrade and muttered an almost embarrassed goodbye. As he started to close the door he heard Lestrade call out.

"Next time use the key, Sherlock!"

"I lost it!" Sherlock yelled back cheekily just before the door closed.

The next day found a small package on their doorstep, addressed to Sherlock. Inside there were three identical keys, each attached to its own keychain, along with a note, signed in what John assumed to be a sarcastic manner:

_Sherlock,_

_Break into my flat again and I'll arrest you. _

_Lots of love,_

_Greg._

**7.** In Which Sherlock Can Cook

John awoke to the feel of a slight pressure on his chest. Opening one eye, he found he was nose to nose with Mo. Much to John's amusement, the kitten had become a permanent resident at 221B Baker Street. Really, it was astounding how alike Mo and Sherlock were. John frequently had to prevent the kitten from tasting all of Sherlock's experiments, and Mo had already begun to show a knack for getting John into situations he would really rather not end up in. Much like now, John realized as he looked at his clock. It was only 7:30 on a Saturday, and Mo had apparently decided it was time for John to be awake. John closed his eyes again with a groan, only to have his cheek swatted by a paw.

"Alright, alright, I'm up," John mumbled. Gently removing Mo from his chest, he sat up and rubbed his eyes. It was at this point John froze, realizing he could hear voices coming from downstairs. One of the voices was definitely Sherlock's, but he couldn't quite place the owner of the second voice.

Apparently displeased with his lack of movement Mo swatted at John again, so he got up off the bed, picking up the cat as he went. Moving softly in case the other person was a client, John made his way downstairs. As he got closer to the bottom of the staircase, he realized the second voice belonged to Lestrade. Figuring the DI had come for a case, John made his way into the kitchen, where he promptly ended up dropping Mo, who looked up at him with a resentful hiss before scampering off. John didn't register this, however, as he was too busy staring at the scene in front of him.

The table and counters had been cleared of all Sherlock's experiments. Lestrade was sitting on one of the counters, wearing leather pants, biker boots and a t-shirt, of all things. And Sherlock was cooking. Sherlock. Was cooking. And he wasn't even cooking something simple, like toast. No, that would have been easy to explain. Rather, the detective seemed to be making a full, proper breakfast.

John wasn't even sure either man had realized he was standing there, as they both seemed to be engaged in a deep discussion about...punk rock? They both seemed far more relaxed than John had ever seen either of them in any other situation. Lestrade was actually smiling as he talked and passed ingredients to Sherlock, and it dawned on John that he had never really seen Lestrade smile before. And then it dawned on him he had never seen Lestrade when not working a case. It was decidedly very odd.

"Oh, John, you're awake." John was startled out of his musings by his flatmate's voice. "Sorry if we woke you," Sherlock continued. "But the food will be ready in about ten minutes, if you want any."

"Sherlock," John replied. "I am going to ask you this, and I want you to answer me honestly." John paused before continuing. "Why are you making breakfast with Lestrade at 7:30 in the morning on a Saturday?"

"It's something we do sometimes," Sherlock replied with a shrug before turning back to the food he was preparing as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Though it was fast dawning on John that it just might be and he had never realized it. He had known both men for less than a year, after all and he had no idea they ever came into contact outside work, the times Sherlock had broken into Lestrade's flat notwithstanding.

Sinking into one of the kitchen chairs, John found himself wondering, for the first time, what exactly Sherlock and Lestrade's relationship was. He had assumed they were just colleagues, Lestrade calling Sherlock when he encountered a tricky case, or, as was more often the case, Sherlock finding a case that interested him and practically begging Lestrade to let him work on it. But judging by this, coupled with what he had seen when he had been in Lestrade's flat, they had to at least be friends.

As the doctor mused, Mo leapt into his lap and he began absentmindedly scratching the kitten's ears. Mo purred and curled up, apparently having forgiven John for dropping him earlier. Having settled the idea that Sherlock and Lestrade were friends (and wasn't that thought just weird, Sherlock Holmes having a friend) another thought crept its way into John's mind. Suddenly he remembered Sherlock's words from that very first case, when he had told John he considered himself married to his work. Had he meant that more literally than John had initially thought? He found himself going through all his memories of Sherlock and Lestrade, looking for any hints this could be the case.

"John? …John?" He found himself once again roused from his thoughts to see Sherlock and Lestrade staring at him, the former as though he were a particularly volatile experiment, the latter with concern.

"Um," John squeaked, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. "Just remembered, er, something terribly important I have to do, must be off." With that, John shot to his feet, earning him another indignant noise from Mo as he all but fled the room.

**8.** In Which Sherlock Is Definitely Dating Lestrade

By the time John worked up the courage to return to Baker Street after his rather undignified retreat it was slightly after midnight. As he moved cautiously into the living room he couldn't help but pause to take in the scene in front of him. Lestrade and Sherlock were on the couch, both asleep. Sherlock was sprawled over the DI who had his arms looped lightly around Sherlock's waist. Curled up next to them was Mo, purring contentedly. Unable to resist, John pulled out his phone and snapped a picture to capture the moment before moving as quietly as he could to his room.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade mumbled once he heard the door to John's room click shut.

"Mm?" was all Sherlock could manage in reply.

"I think John just took a picture of us," he rumbled sleepily. "Could be used for blackmail later."

"Always thinking like a cop. Don't worry, I'll nick it from him tomorrow," Sherlock assured the man below him, giving him a soft peck on the lips. "Go back to sleep."

The next morning Sherlock did indeed confiscate John's phone. Looking at the picture from the previous night, Sherlock felt a smile tugging at his mouth. He quickly sent the photo to his own phone before deleting it. Placing John's phone back into his jacket, Sherlock forwarded the picture to Lestrade.

A few seconds later his phone chimed, signaling he had received a text. It simply read: _Love you._

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><p>AN: Oh, I do so love making John uncomfortable. Two things: First, I never really intended on them keeping the cat. That just sort of happened on its own, as is the way of such things. Second, this was originally going to just be a list of five things, but then I started getting new ideas, so now it's eight, I guess. Also, I snuck in a reference to the webcomic Questionable Content, as well as a reference to A Very Potter Musical (because my nerdiness knows no bounds). Cookie to people who recognize them.

So, love it? Hate it? Want to shoot me in every part of me that is for a free America for writing it? Let me know!

-badgermushroom out! :d


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